


Deserved

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Blood Kink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Stabbing, Submission, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Saruhiko’s close enough that Misaki can hear the other’s huff of frustration over his shoulder, close enough that he’s bracing for an attack even before Saruhiko’s voice drops lower, rough and trembling with insistence. 'Look at me, Misaki, don’t turn your back on me.'" Misaki ignores Saruhiko, and Saruhiko picks a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserved

Misaki thought today was going to be a good day. He has the afternoon free, no demands on his time but those he makes for himself; the sun is out, there’s a breeze catching at the too-large sleeves of his sweater, and when he kicks his skateboard forward the wind pushes him forward until he feels like he’s flying. He’s planning to buy a soda, find a quiet corner and just savor the rare peace, let the city hum around and against him until his thoughts clear off into contentment.

He should have known better.

He’s just turning down an alley, one of the long narrow ones that will grant him the illusion of isolation without shutting out the motion of the city, when his spine starts to prickle with foreboding. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling -- for a moment he thinks it’s a chill, an unconscious memory that he’s not acknowledging. He thinks it is fleeting, that it will pass. But it’s gotten worse by the time he gets to the far end and props his skateboard against the wall, bad enough that when he turns around he’s barely surprised by the figure sillhouetted against the other end of the alley.

He knows who it is. He could recognize that particular head tilt blocks away, knows the shape of that too-high collar and the off-center angle of hip even before his ears catch the breathy giggle that bubbles up Saruhiko’s throat.

“ _Misaki_.” Saruhiko draws his name long and syrupy-sweet, rolls the sounds over his tongue and back down his throat until they come out wet and warm and heavy.

Misaki hesitates for a moment. It would be easy to turn this into a fight, to kick his skateboard back off the wall and head back towards the other as fast as he can go. He might take Saruhiko by surprise, at least a little, and the rush of the fight would kill the burn of irritation under his skin. But he was having a good day, he can still see the fringes of it slipping from his fingers, and in a last-ditch effort to retain those he turns his back on Saruhiko, stares at the grimy wall in front of him and says, “Go away, Saru.”

He should have known that wouldn’t work. The sound of Saruhiko’s boots echoes off the wall more clearly than the faint scuff of Misaki’s own sneakers, and when the other speaks again it’s much closer. “Don’t  _ignore_  me, Misaki.” It’s gentle still but Misaki can hear the edge under it, the faint whine of desperation on his name, and stubborn irritation keeps him turned around when he knows what reaction that will cause.

It doesn’t take long. Saruhiko’s close enough that Misaki can hear the other’s huff of frustration over his shoulder, close enough that he’s bracing for an attack even before Saruhiko’s voice drops lower, rough and trembling with insistence. “ _Look_  at me, Misaki, don’t turn your  _back_  on me.” Then there’s the sound of metal against cloth, the tell of Saruhiko drawing a knife from his belt, and Misaki turns smoothly on one foot, pivots around with his arm up to block the swing he’s expecting. Saruhiko does have a knife out, and he is swinging, but there’s no force behind it; the blade barely catches Misaki’s shirt and doesn’t tear his skin at all before it’s knocked free of Saruhiko’s hand and goes clattering into the corner.

Saruhiko’s expression clears the moment Misaki’s gaze lands on him, his grimace of frustration melting into that lopsided smile Misaki used to love. “Misaki,” he says again, and it’s the same tone he used at the entrance of the alley, slow and careful like he’s afraid to let the sounds go or can’t remember quite how they’re supposed to sound.

It’s the sound of his name,  _again_ , that does it. Misaki can’t stand to hear that name on those lips, as if Saruhiko has a  _right_  to his name, a right to  _him_ , as if the tenderness in the sound isn’t twisted unrecognizable with intensity. In the space between two breaths Misaki’s blood lights red-hot, until he can feel it coalescing bright and radiant under his skin. His fingers are closed around Saruhiko’s jacket, he’s stepping in to hiss up at the other before he even knows what he’s going to say.

“You  _cut_  me,” he declares, present irritation meeting bitter betrayal and flaring into rage he can feel burning his very tongue in his mouth. “I told you go  _away_ , I don’t want to  _fight_  you.”

When he shakes Saruhiko goes limp, swaying into the motion with no resistance and no flicker in his smile; if anything his eyes go softer, his expression warmer. It’s  _maddening_ , Misaki is gritting his teeth even before Saruhiko all but purrs, “ _I_  want you to fight me.”

Misaki makes a wordless noise of fury, more a shout than defiance, and when he shoves Saruhiko the other lets the force of the motion carry him sideways. If he resisted he could get his feet back under him, Misaki is sure, but he doesn’t, just goes stumbling sideways until he fetches up against the wall, slowly slides down it so Misaki claims the advantage of height for a moment. When Saruhiko looks up his eyes are still soft, tender and affectionate, and that’s worst of all, there’s too much that is familiar in those eyes for Misaki to reject it completely.

“Fuck you,” he spits. The words shake in his throat, Saruhiko’s smile slips even wider, and Misaki can’t say for sure that the heat blistering under his skin is all rage, not absolutely. “Don’t  _look_  at me like that.”

Saruhiko’s expression doesn’t shift, not even when he laughs, the sound low and manic and uneven in his throat. Misaki stares down at him, at the limp fall of his arms at his sides, his upturned wrists and the way the angle of Saruhiko’s head is baring his neck like an offering, and he’s certain he’s never seen anyone look so much like a sacrifice as Saruhiko is at this moment.

He hates it. His heart is pounding and his eyes are as hot as his skin, welling with tears of rage and love turned cold with betrayal, and the idea of standing over Saruhiko like this, of watching the other stare up at him with that obsessive tenderness in his eyes, is more than Misaki can stand. Saruhiko doesn’t move when Misaki drops over his legs, except to tip his chin down so he can keep staring at the other’s face. His eyes are dilated dark behind his glasses, his mouth is just open like he’s about to say something.

“I hate you,” Misaki says, and when he blinks his eyes overflow with tears, and when he reaches out for the dropped knife Saruhiko sighs a laugh. “How dare you demand  _anything_  from me, I don’t owe you a  _thing_.” Saruhiko’s jacket pulls open easily; he’s left the top buttons undone, the cloth slides sideways like a habit to bare the burned-out Homra mark on his shoulder. Saruhiko is breathing harder, Misaki can hear the panting whine at the back of his throat when Misaki’s fingers accidentally brush his skin, but he’s still not moving, making no attempt to stop Misaki or fight back at all. He’s slumped against the wall like he’s utterly boneless, his wrists twisted up towards the sky as if he’s offering his veins to be torn open, and Misaki can’t bear to look at Saruhiko’s eyes and he can’t make himself look away.

“You’re the one who left,” he says, and he wishes it didn’t sound so much like a defense. Saruhiko shuts his eyes for a moment, shivers like Misaki is whispering endearments against his skin, and Misaki’s fingers tighten on the handle of Saruhiko’s dropped knife. “You betrayed  _me_ , you betrayed my  _pride_ , you -- you --” He lifts the knife, his eyes skimming over the possible attacks -- throat, wrists, chest -- before his gaze lands back on the burn, still dark and ugly as if in acknowledgment of its own symbolism.

“You don’t deserve this,” Misaki says, and sinks the knife straight through the middle of the burn.

He wants a scream, a shudder, even a cringe of pain would be enough to cool his rage. The knife is sharp, and it sinks in deep enough that it must be sharply, agonizingly painful; Misaki remembers his own experience with this blade, or maybe one of the others in the matched set. No one could take that impact and not react.

Saruhiko’s eyes roll up, his body jerks, his mouth comes open, but the sound he makes is nothing like the scream Misaki was expecting. It’s a  _moan_ , low and shaking and unmistakably, unquestionably sexual, as if Misaki has just taken his cock into his mouth instead of stabbed a knife an inch into his shoulder. Saruhiko’s hips come off the ground for a moment, rocking forward like he’s reaching for stimulus; then he goes slack against the wall again, but his mouth stays open and his eyes look like they’re not quite in focus.

“Jesus christ,” Misaki says, sounding low and appalled even to his own ears. “Saru, you’re a fucking lunatic.”

“ _Misaki_ ,” Saruhiko says, and there is no trace of the deliberate taunt on the word now, just raw desperation. He blinks, turns his head back from its angle so he can stare at Misaki’s face, and his eyes are black, now, there’s nothing but shadowed pupil dilated wide from satisfaction. “Misaki,  _more_.”

Misaki’s rage is gone as if it was never there. He isn’t sure  _what_  he’s feeling, now, except that it’s not anger at all. There’s some horror in there, the edge of fright at Saruhiko’s reaction, but the other is staring at him with his mouth soft and his eyes desperate, and Misaki’s wrist obeys the plea in Saruhiko’s eyes and the order in his throat instead of waiting for Misaki to decide how he feels. It’s harder to turn the blade than it was to stab with it; the cutting edge is wrong for the twisting motion of Misaki’s arm, and really it barely shifts at all. But Saruhiko convulses in what ought to be pain and looks like pleasure, his shoulders jerk off the wall until Misaki can’t tell if he’s trying to pull away or push in closer, and when he groans Misaki recognizes it without even thinking. That’s the sound Saruhiko makes when he’s too far gone into pleasure to even form the shape of Misaki’s name; Misaki doesn’t even have to look down, he can see the warmth of orgasm drawing Saruhiko’s eyes out of focus and his expression slack with relaxation.

Misaki pulls the blade free fast, before he can inadvertently cause more of that languid heat under Saruhiko’s features; there’s a spill of blood across the other’s shoulder, soaking his white shirt crimson on contact, and Saruhiko moans faintly but at least he sounds calmer than he did, less desperate and more drained. Misaki throws the knife back into the corner, pulls Saruhiko’s clothes back over his shoulder and presses hard against the injury in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. He can’t breathe, his heart is racing with guilt and fright and adrenaline, and worst of all memory is firing his blood warm on the sound of Saruhiko’s voice, Saruhiko is bleeding through his shirt and jacket and that’s not stopping Misaki from going hard from the expression on his face, the glazed satisfaction in his eyes and the languid curve of his lips.

He looks away, stares down at the shape of his hand pale and shaking even pressed hard against Saruhiko’s shoulder. It doesn’t help; he’s still trembling with too many reactions pounding through his head like a wildfire when fingers close on his shoulder, squeeze until he flinches in pain and looks back up.

Saruhiko’s not looking at him. He’s tipped his head back against the wall, is staring up at the sky so Misaki can see his throat work around a breath a moment before he tightens his grip further and says, “ _Fuck_  me, Misaki.”

“ _What_?” Misaki drops his hand from Saruhiko’s chest, tries and fails to flinch away from the hold on his shoulder. “ _No_ , we’re in  _public_ , Saru, no  _way_.”

“ _Please_.” Saruhiko lifts his head, leans in and pulls Misaki in close enough that Misaki can taste the shaking heat of his breath. “No one will see us. Please, Misaki.” He’s not teasing, he’s not taunting, Misaki can feel him shaking and gasping for breath, can hear the edge of desperation starting to creep back in even under the slow slur of pleasure still on Saruhiko’s tongue. He moves quick even with his injured shoulder, his fingers fitting between Misaki’s legs before the other can even think to stop him, and when he pushes up with his palm the first flush of heat is too much for Misaki to voice a protest.

“Saru,” he manages, but it doesn’t sound like rejection, it sounds like a shiver, and Saruhiko smiles so wide Misaki can feel it against his lips, the leading edge of a kiss that doesn’t quite materialize. Saruhiko’s working his fingers against the front of Misaki’s clothes, curling his fingers and pressing with his palm and this is all too familiar, even with the barrier of cloth Saruhiko remembers too well what Misaki likes for him to muster anything but a whine. And the heat is helping, the panic is fading off into want, everything spiraling frantically through Misaki’s thoughts is going sideways for consideration at some future point as instinct tells him to focus on the pleasure starting to climb up under his skin.

“Fuck,” Misaki blurts, and he pulls away from Saruhiko’s almost-kiss, comes up on his knees to lean in harder against the other’s hand. When he grabs at Saruhiko’s shoulders to keep his balance he doesn’t think about the other’s injury until Saruhiko shudders against his chest, tips his head in to rest his forehead heavy against Misaki’s shirt. He’s breathing hot and fast against Misaki’s shirt, Misaki can feel the warmth straight through the thin fabric, and after a moment Saruhiko lets his shoulder go so he can pull at the fastenings at the front of Misaki’s pants without pausing the grinding pressure of his palm.

“Please,” Saruhiko is saying again, licking at Misaki’s shirt until the cloth goes sticky with moisture against Misaki’s skin. “ _Misaki_ , please.”

“You’re crazy,” Misaki says, but that’s not the refusal he wishes it was, and when Saruhiko gets his pants open and his fingers down to drag across Misaki’s cock all the breath leaves his lungs at once. Saruhiko is sucking at his shirt, now, licking desperate at the cloth like he’s trying to push straight through to skin underneath, and his hands are shaking, Misaki can feel the tremble even when Saruhiko draws his fingers into a grip against him. Saruhiko’s stroke over him is jerky too, too desperate to have any rhythm at all, and after a moment Misaki sighs out the last of his resistance and struggles to his feet instead of his knees. Saruhiko doesn’t even pause, barely takes a breath before he’s replacing his fingers with the warm wet of his mouth. He comes in so far Misaki has to grab at his hair in a panic, hold him back to keep Saruhiko’s airway clear. Saruhiko is whining in the back of his throat, groaning with every movement of his head so Misaki can feel the vibration all through his length, as clear as the sliding pressure of Saruhiko’s tongue licking over him in counterpoint to the catch of lips. Misaki lets Saruhiko’s shoulder go, reaches out to brace himself against the wall with the hand not occupied in making a fist of the other’s hair. Saruhiko’s fumbling at the front of his own clothes, working his uniform pants open and half-off his hips, and after a moment Misaki drags him back and off, steps back from the wall and pulls at Saruhiko’s hair to get him up on his feet.

“Stand up.” Even his voice sounds rough, shaking and hot and anxious even before Saruhiko blinks up at him, his eyes still infinitely dark and his mouth open like he’s passively begging for more. When Misaki keeps pulling Saruhiko stumbles to his feet, the grace he usually has lost like he’s had his strings cut. He’s working his pants down before Misaki even says anything, tipping his head sideways to press his skin to the inside of Misaki’s wrist, to drag his parted lips over Misaki’s skin before the other snatches his hand away. He’s going hard again, his skin is sticky with drying come when Misaki lets his hair go and grabs at his hip to turn him in against the wall. Saruhiko goes, as passively as he followed Misaki’s first shove, slams against the wall with all the force of his weight and no effort to catch himself. He goes languid against the support, spreads his fingers wide against the wall and turns his head to rest against it so Misaki can see the pull of his lingering smile of anticipation when Saruhiko shuts his eyes.

Misaki’s hands are shaking when he brings his fingers to his mouth; they taste like ash, like dirt and grime and soot, but it doesn’t matter right now, cleanliness is not a major concern at the moment. All he’s trying to do it get them wet anyway, catch as much saliva as he can before he pushes up the edge of the other’s white shirt and reaches out to touch his spit-slick fingers to Saruhiko’s entrance. The other exhales in what sounds more like a moan than a breath, shivers in anticipation, and when Misaki still hesitates he groans, “ _Please_  Misaki” with all the melting force of fire under his voice.

Misaki takes a breath, closes his free hand against Saruhiko’s hip, and pushes in hard with both fingers at once. It takes more force than he was expecting, there’s the catch of friction that makes him wince sympathetically, but Saruhiko takes a sharp shuddering inhale and bucks hard against the wall in a desperate bid for more friction against his length.

“Are you okay?” Misaki blurts without thinking, instinctive concern overriding his personal knowledge of Saruhiko, but the other just whimpers, shoves in harder against the wall. Misaki can see his fingers arching angular and desperate against the bricks, and he’s not even surprised when Saruhiko licks his lips and pants, “ _Misaki_ ,  _fuck_  me.”

“Jesus.” Misaki’s only just got his fingers entirely inside Saruhiko, but he can feel the other relaxing around him, can look up and see the want knocking Saruhiko’s eyes out of focus and drawing half-voiced moans from his throat, and sympathetic arousal if nothing else is flooding him with heat and desperation in response. “Okay.”

He slides his fingers free, pulls another quaking groan from Saruhiko at the friction, but before he can ask the other is arching back against him, breathing too fast and forming the shape if not the sound of pleas on his lips. His hand still hasn’t relaxed; if anything it angles sharper with tense anticipation as Misaki steps in closer, looks down to line himself up one-handed while still holding Saruhiko’s hip, as if the other is going to make any move to pull away. He’s expecting the friction, this time, but it’s different on his cock than against his fingers, hot and so tight his vision blurs for a moment. By the time he’s blinked his eyes back into focus Saruhiko’s hand has relaxed, the other’s eyes are shut and his mouth is relaxed and parted like all the tension has left his body.

“Saru?” Misaki asks, going still against the other. Saruhiko makes a sound, a whimper very far back in his throat, and there’s another shiver of panic down Misaki’s spine. “Saru, are you okay?”

Saruhiko licks his lips, slowly opens his out-of-focus eyes. “ _Misaki_.” The syllables are shattered apart, hot and slow and separate, and they set Misaki’s skin alight with something more than rage even before Saruhiko says, “ _More_ ,” and Misaki moves. He’s slow at first, still anxious, but Saruhiko grinds against the wall as he thrusts forward and Saruhiko’s expression is raw and open with satisfaction, and when he comes in harder the other laughs, sounding delighted even as the sound shakes in his throat. Misaki takes a breath, reaches up to set his other hand against Saruhiko’s shoulder to shove him harder against the wall, and Saruhiko goes as obediently as he did before, pressed flat against the support until Misaki can hear the awkward catch of his breathing from the angle of his head. Even that doesn’t make his smile so much as flicker; Saruhiko looks blissful, looks like he’s a freezing man lit on fire, and Misaki keeps watching that expression as he starts to thrust faster and harder in obedience to the pull of instinct and desire in his own body.

He’s just starting to pant for air, the world is starting to shiver into unimportant fragments around him, when Saruhiko shudders against the wall. Misaki can feel him tensing around him, can feel the tight draw of expectation just long enough for him to pull together a thought and start to say, “Saru?” before Saruhiko groans “ _Misaki_ ” and trembles into orgasm against the wall. He starts to laugh before the last of the tremors have faded off; the sound of that arrhythmic amusement sweeps out over Misaki’s consciousness like it’s taking all his other perception with it, rings in his ears in the moment before he loses grasp of comprehension and falls in against Saruhiko’s shoulders to gasp through the pulse of pleasure as he comes himself.

He’s pulling away as soon as he’s regained control of his body, as soon as he can pick apart the continued gasp of Saruhiko’s breathing from his own. Saruhiko is turning back around as soon as Misaki’s fingers leave his skin, blinking himself back into focus so he can tip his chin down and gaze at Misaki over the top of his glasses. His smile is still there, just as lopsided as it has always been, without a trace of acknowledgment that his collar is starting to go red as blood wicks up the fabric from his shoulder. Misaki’s gaze drops from Saruhiko’s eyes to the growing darkness at his jacket shoulder, fixes there as he pulls his clothes back into place.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks, when Saruhiko shows no sign of moving or interest in doing anything but staring at Misaki like he’s the only thing worth watching in the world. “Is that still bleeding?”

Saruhiko’s expression contorts; he looks down to follow Misaki’s gaze, pushes his shirt aside so Misaki can see the wash of blood over his pale skin. “Mm.” When he trails his fingers through the color they leave streaks over his shoulder and Misaki can see the slow slide of blood to fill in the irregularities. “A little.” He doesn’t move to wipe his hands clean, but he does move, slow and heavy like he’s underwater, to pull the tangle of his uniform back up around his hips. Misaki backs away, retreats to press his shoulders against the back of the alley so he can slide down to hunch over his knees alongside his skateboard. He doesn’t look back up, even when Saruhiko stumbles forward to drop to his knees alongside him and tips his head in to press his forehead against Misaki’s collarbone.

“Misaki,” Saruhiko sighs, reaches out to slide his fingers down inside the neckline of Misaki’s shirt. Misaki doesn’t realize they’re still coated in blood until he feels the sticky damp touch against his shoulder, just atop his intact Homra mark. “I  _miss_  you.”

Misaki takes a breath. Then he lets it out, slow and resigned, and lifts his arm to fold in around Saruhiko’s shoulders. Saruhiko melts in against his side, fitting the unfamiliar weight of his uniform against Misaki’s hip and waist until he’s draped half-across Misaki’s lap. It doesn’t look comfortable, especially when Misaki can feel the damp of Saruhiko’s blood seeping from the other’s jacket into his own sweater, but Saruhiko’s eyes are shut, and he’s smiling like he’s just rediscovered happiness, and Misaki can’t bear to push him away right now. He lets his arm go heavy around Saruhiko’s shoulders, watches the other’s expression slide into relaxation more thorough than when he is actually asleep, lets Saruhiko’s body bleed heat into him.

It’s the happiest he’s felt in months.


End file.
